His Brother's Keeper
by Mally O'Jack
Summary: One evening, Mycroft finds his little brother waiting for him and carries him up to bed. Years later, he finds his brother waiting for him again, with a request.


The catalyst for this story came from firstly reading _Ashtrees_ and _Sevenpercent's_ really interesting comments and stories on Sherlock having Asperger's syndrome. Then I came across 'The Reason I Jump' by Naoki Higashida, an account of a boy with autism. In one of the chapters he talks about why he hates having his hair cut.

Comments...thoughts...constructive criticism... it's all shiny and much appreciated.

Note: In the first part of the story, Mycroft is 15, and Sherlock is 8. The latter part takes place after the last scene of 'The Reichenbach Fall'.

* * *

His Brother's Keeper

by Mally O'Jack

Mycroft was getting peckish. He glanced at the grandfather clock; to his surprise it was much later than he had supposed. The kitchen staff would all be off duty now. Inconvenient.

He placed a paperweight over his research and opened the door to the study. Father's study, actually, but since Father was rarely at home nowadays he had commandeered it.

The hallway was dark, but the light from the study illuminated a small form huddled on the stairs.

"Sherlock," he said, looking disapprovingly down. "You should be asleep. It's very late."

Sherlock blinked up at him, not quite asleep but not quite awake either. "You didn't come up."

Pursing his lips, Mycroft bent down and picked his brother up. An easy task; Sherlock was small for his age, and Mycroft had shot up over the summer, much to Father's approval.

"You're getting too old for this," he said, carefully making his way up the stairs, Sherlock's arms flung about his neck. "And you've no slippers on, and no dressing gown either."

"Too hot," a voice said near his ear. Sherlock was resting his head on Mycroft's shoulder.

"That's not the point."

He nudged the door to Sherlock's room open with his foot. It was dark in here too, and as he tentatively made his way over to the bed he tripped over an unknown object. He staggered for a moment, balancing an armful of Sherlock and swearing.

"You shouldn't say that word," Sherlock informed him. "Mummy said."

"Mummy's not here, is she?"

Sherlock processed that for a moment as Mycroft deposited him on the bed.

"So I can say it at school then."

"No," Mycroft said, sitting down and tugging the covers around Sherlock.

"Why not?"

"Because _I _said so." An argument won by authority rather than logic, and clearly Sherlock felt the unfairness of it because he thumped Mycroft hard with his fist.

Mycroft ignored him. His eyes were adjusting to the gloom, and he noticed that the ceiling was glowing faintly. Somehow Sherlock had contrived to stick glow-in-the-dark stars up there.

He lay down then on top of the duvet, like he used to do, sharing Sherlock's pillow. His feet dangled off the edge of the bed as he scrutinised Sherlock's handiwork. "The Plough is in the wrong place in relation to the North Star. And Orion has too many stars in his belt. In fact - "

"They aren't constellations."

"No?"

He felt rather than saw Sherlock shake his head.

Then he saw it in a flash, the rather crude arrangement. "They're atomic shells."

Sherlock giggled next to him.

"How ever did you put them up there?"

"Mummy lifted me up."

He felt a twinge. Mummy had not spoken to him for days. "You should not have asked her to do that, Sherlock. Mummy is far from well. You know that."

Sherlock rolled over, away from Mycroft, hiding his face.

"You've had a haircut today as well, I see."

Sherlock made a grunting noise.

"Very neat."

"It's too short," came the muffled response.

"You always say that."

"And - " indignation made Sherlock raise his head suddenly, "it hurts when they cut it but they never believe me."

"You mean it hurts when they pull your hair by accident?"

"No. When they cut it with the scissors."

"Nonsense. Hair does not contain nerve fibres – "

Sherlock scowled and turned away again, this time disappearing all the way under the covers.

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock?" When Sherlock showed no signs of reappearing, he got up and left the room.

* * *

The next day Father went Away for good, and Mummy got worse, and Sherlock's bedtime routine completely disintegrated, along with his behaviour, despite Mycroft's best efforts.

Now, almost thirty years later, in the family home that he had claimed as his own, Mycroft found his little brother sitting on the stairs again, waiting for him.

Interesting, this sudden tightness in his chest, the catch in his breath. Sherlock had been in touch since his suicide stunt, of course, but this was the first time Mycroft had actually seen him.

Sherlock rose. "Mycroft."

"Sherlock. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I need you to cut my hair."

He absorbed that, and its implications. "You're leaving."

"Tomorrow."

"The location that we agreed upon?"

"If you mean the location that you arranged, then yes."

Sherlock's eyes upon him, challenging him. He refused to rise to the bait.

* * *

He spread a sheet out over the utility room floor and then placed a chair in the middle. "If you'd like a mirror - "

Sherlock shook his head. "Just do it."

The haircut was a trial for both brothers. Mycroft disliked the sensation of hair between his fingers, the necessary contact. Sherlock sat with his eyes tightly closed, flinching slightly each time Mycroft made a pass with the razor. Short, as Sherlock requested, part of the cover that they had devised.

Sherlock was tapping his fingers against his thighs now, and there was a faint whining noise that wasn't coming from the razor. To distract his brother, Mycroft said, "When you were a little boy, you hated having your hair cut."

"And yet it was always insisted upon."

"Well, we couldn't have you looking like a street urchin now, could we?" He ruffled the cropped hair, looking for irregularities.

"Have you finished?"

"Patience, dear brother...there."

Sherlock sprang up from the chair, shrugging off the towel and disappearing out the room. It was left to Mycroft to fold up the sheet and the towel, to sweep up the errant locks and to place it all in the incinerator.

* * *

Sherlock was pacing up and down in the hallway, and halted at Mycroft's approach. Mycroft saw the full effect of the new haircut and a sharp shock went through him. Never had the past so forcefully and so visibly intruded on the present the way it did now. Sherlock, how he used to look.

To cover up his consternation, he said, "You'll sleep here tonight, of course." He gestured up the stairs. "After you."

"I know where my room is, Mycroft."

"Yes. But you gave me no notice, and I'd prefer to see that everything is in order."

Sherlock, next to him, ascending the stairs, and yet at the same time the overwhelming memory of carrying a much smaller, much younger Sherlock in his arms. It was the oddest sensation.

Sherlock opened the door to his room and glanced around briefly. "It's fine."

"Good. If you need anything - "

Sherlock shot him a quick, almost furtive look. He was tapping his fingers again.

Mycroft stepped across the threshold into the room. "Sherlock - "

"I saw John today. He visited my grave with Mrs. Hudson. He was crying."

Curious how Sherlock's supposed death could elicit the tears of people such as these.

"He's gone back to his therapist. I need access to - "

Mycroft cut across him, exasperation clipping his words. "You should not have taken such risks. What if someone had seen you?"

And just like that, it was gone. Sherlock turned away.

He sighed. How inconvenient it was; to be plagued by this furious, desperate love for his brother, made worse by the danger that Sherlock courted and that he could not control.

He rested his hand on the door handle. "Sherlock," he said, gentler now. "I will endeavour to restore you to him as fast as ever I can."

Their eyes met then, and it seemed that, just for a moment, they understood each other completely.

"I should warn you," he added, "I'm setting the security system tonight. In case you should think of leaving tomorrow without saying goodbye."

Amused irritation flicked across Sherlock's features briefly. "A sensible precaution."

Mycroft smiled. "Yes, I thought so."

Sherlock wandered over to the bookshelf then. Mycroft watched him for a moment. His little brother, whom he would always associate with a sense of loss.

"Good night, Sherlock."

Sherlock made a distracted noise, reaching for a book, and Mycroft closed the door quietly behind him.

_Finis_


End file.
